Jim played through all of the last half and pleased himself thoroughly. Those second-team fellows weren’t so hard to handle to-day. He had three men opposed to him while he was in and none outplayed him in his opinion. To be sure, no one stopped proceedings to tell him he was doing well, but Jim had learned that praise, even commendation, was dealt out sparingly, and that so long as a player got along without being scolded it could be assumed that he was performing very creditably. Although he had been at training table but two days he found things not a little different on the field. He was no more a part of the squad than before, but it seemed that being taken to the table had served as an initiation that had admitted him to an inner sanctuary. Fellows who had never recognized him three days ago now hailed him as “Slim”--possibly without always knowing his last name--quite in the off-hand manner of age-old acquaintances. At first it embarrassed him greatly, but he liked it even then. He felt of importance for the first time since he had begun to play. He was, at last, somebody in the football world of Alton! Before, he had thought of himself as being there on sufferance; now he belonged. The sense of camaraderie helped a lot, too. Somehow, now when Pep Kinsey or Latham or Barnhart, playing quarter, yelped at him for playing too far in or too far out or, as once happened, starting before the signal, he didn’t take it to heart. The quarter was just one of his own crowd! It was still light when Jim got back to Haylow that afternoon, and Clem was sprawled on the window-seat, reading, his book held close to the pane. “There’s been a gentleman here to see you, Jim,” he announced. There was faint emphasis on the word “gentleman,” and Jim’s brows contracted as he turned to the closet to hang up his cap. “Said he’d be back again.” “What did he look like?” asked Jim soberly. “Well, to tell you the truth, old son, he looked rather seedy. Slight chap, about twenty-four, perhaps. In case he’s a particular friend of yours, I won’t be too detailed.” Clem grinned. “Anyhow, he’s coming back, and if I were you, Jim, I’d pay the bill.” “What bill?” “How do I know?” chuckled Clem. “Perhaps the bill you owe his poor old widowed mother for the washing. He struck me as the sort of guy who’d be likely to land you one on the nose if you didn’t settle prompt. How did football go?” “All right.” Jim seemed rather thoughtful. Instead of sitting down he walked twice between the window and the door, his hands in his pockets. Then, “All right,” he said again. “Still all right, eh?” asked Clem. “That’s fine. When a thing’s all right I do love to have it stay that way.” Jim looked at him in puzzlement. “If it happened to change, you’d let me know, wouldn’t you?” pursued Clem anxiously.